


For Jedha

by roselightsaber



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, M/M, Not Romance, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 07:06:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9590015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roselightsaber/pseuds/roselightsaber
Summary: A prompt fulfilled for gokuma @ tumblr. The survivors of NiJedha consider their loss and what comes next in very different ways.





	

“He reminds me of you.”

Baze glances over at his partner with dim annoyance. They’ve said little to each other since barely escaping Jedha. There is little to say; everything they’d ever known is gone, obliterated in one blast. Home, family, anything that ever mattered. Except each other. Baze isn’t ready to face it, not here with the eyes of strangers on him. He’s not even sure where to begin, too overwhelmed to do anything but push aside thoughts of anything but revenge, though he’s sharply aware of the effect this sort of state has on Chirrut. Chirrut who also needs to grieve, who has no one left in the universe but one completely shut-down old killer. Their shared anguish amplifies one another’s suffering.

“The pilot,” Chirrut begins again. “Reminds me of you when we were young.”

Speaking seems a dangerous gamble, so Baze just rises and moves to sit closer to Chirrut to let him know he’s listening. He wants badly to bundle him into a hug, to tell him it’s alright and they’ll get through it. But he can’t lie to him. Chirrut rests a hand on his leg and the simple affection in the gesture is almost too much to bear. The other must feel it, too, because he only gives him the briefest squeeze before returning both hands to his staff, tapping it softly on the ground. It’s a habit that soothes him, Baze knows, and at the moment he can understand why.

“He’s very brave,” Chirrut goes on. “And very afraid. The difference is he shows his fear. Hides his bravery.” He leans on Baze’s shoulder, just enough contact. “You were always the reverse.”

“He’s from Jedha.” Baze finally says. His hushed tone feels _wrong,_ recalls days when they’d had to relearn how to live on the streets, keeping safe from the encroaching Empire. “Wonder if he ever came through the Temple.”

Chirrut tilts toward the front of the shuttle where the man in question is sitting, a bundle of nervous energy certainly every bit as clear to Chirrut’s senses as he is too Baze’s eyes. “Bodhi, is it?”

“Bodhi–” The other looks startled even to hear his own name again. Baze’s sense of the Force is not like Chirrut’s, and he can’t be certain where the Force begins and his own instincts begin, but the terror rippling off the young man is palpable. “I’m – yes, Bodhi.”

Chirrut pats the seat on his side opposite Baze. “Come, my Jedhan brother.”

He blinks his wide eyes slowly, disbelieving. No one had identified him as such in a while, Baze was sure. Maybe as anything at all other than an Imperial, a traitor to his home, part of the machine that had just crumbled NiJedha to dust. Baze isn’t sure just which title suits him, but Chirrut’s obvious trust for the young man is reason enough for him to keep it to himself.

Bodhi joins them, all trembling hands and barely-concealed trauma. “It’s gone,” He blurts out. “It’s really all gone.”

Chirrut draws a long breath. “Not all gone. We remain.”

Baze closes his eyes. The idealist fool, at it again.

“That’s – yeah, we’re here. We survived.” It’s not a reaction so unlike Baze’s. He seems not to grieve, but it’s only shock masking everything else. His stupor just happens to be shaky and manic while Baze’s is stoic and silent. Baze doesn’t know how to begin to show it, but he does, against all appearances, have immense sympathy. At least he and Chirrut are used to losing everything.

“So Jedha carries on.” Chirrut takes Bodhi’s hand. Baze can feel the sorrow he’s trying so hard to channel into strength for the pilot’s sake. “Tell me, Brother, did you ever come to the Temple of the Whills? Before–” His tone catches for the first time and never really recovers. It’s not a sentence that needs an ending, though, for any of them to understand fully.

“Once or twice.” Bodhi glances between the two unsteadily, seemingly relieved in some odd way that his two companions, if they could be called such a thing, either couldn’t or wouldn’t attempt to maintain eye contact. He’s free to continue speaking mainly to his own shoes. “I was very young. We made the pilgrimage. My family and I.” He sucks in a sudden ragged breath. “ _Oh_ , my family–”

“Perhaps we’ve met before.” Chirrut curls an arm around Bodhi’s shoulders and squeezes him tightly, balancing the shuddering sob that wracks his slim frame as much as he can. “The will of the Force is truly unknowable,” He adds quietly, which finally brings Baze’s eyes back to the pair again.

“Don’t say that kind of thing to him now,” He snarls. “What’s wrong with you?”

Chirrut closes his eyes a moment, summoning patience they’re all desperately low on. “Many beings find strength in faith, my love.” The term of endearment sends Bodhi’s quivery, tearful eyes flickering back and forth between them. 

Baze is almost thankful for something over which to simply be mildly annoyed when good sense would tell him to be in unfathomable pain instead. “Many beings, or just you, now?”

“Stop trying to pick a fight,” Chirrut growls, holding Bodhi closer, protectively. Baze’s traitorous mind flashes an impression of Chirrut in the same pose across his vision – Chirrut’s shielding embrace around a smaller child as gloved hands try to pull them apart – and he looks away suddenly, a gasping breath holding back a sob.

“We are all in pain,” Chirrut chokes out after a moment, composure beginning to come apart at last. “It helps none of us to turn it on each other.”

“We – we need to–” Bodhi pipes up and falls silent just as quickly when Baze’s sullen eyes turn toward him again.

Chirrut pats his arm. “Go on, Brother.”

“We need to keep fighting, right?” He looks between them, blinking back tears. Baze sees every Guardian, every merchant, every orphan, every Jedhan he’s ever known in those eyes. “F-for Jedha.”

This much they can agree on.


End file.
